 | Under the dawn |  |
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DEATH IS BETTER.
Death is better! and why?
Because the sands of the soul,
That stammer and flutter and roll,
Halt, and are tamed, and are dry,
When their tremulous beads run nigh
To that ultimate fiery goal.
Because the sands of the soul,
That stammer and flutter and roll,
Halt, and are tamed, and are dry,
When their tremulous beads run nigh
To that ultimate fiery goal.
Death is better; for there
We are not plagued any more
By things we cherished before,
And no love's wonderful hair
Comes fluttering, fierce and fair,
Along that desolate shore.
We are not plagued any more
By things we cherished before,
And no love's wonderful hair
Comes fluttering, fierce and fair,
Along that desolate shore.
Death is better! for life
Is an unsearched desperate pit,
And our souls are swallows and flit
At the mouth in a tortuous strife—
But when Death gleams and his knife,
We do not flutter but sit.
Is an unsearched desperate pit,
And our souls are swallows and flit
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But when Death gleams and his knife,
We do not flutter but sit.
Death is better; so come,
Thou much-loved villanous knave,
And scatter the mould of the grave
With cunning finger and thumb;
Believe us, that there are some
Thy coming shall calm and save.
Thou much-loved villanous knave,
And scatter the mould of the grave
With cunning finger and thumb;
Believe us, that there are some
Thy coming shall calm and save.
For Death hath a diverse face,
To some he is strong and a cord,
To others the blade of a sword
Keen-sharpened, devoid of grace—
To others a gentle embrace
And a soft and supreme reward.
To some he is strong and a cord,
To others the blade of a sword
Keen-sharpened, devoid of grace—
To others a gentle embrace
And a soft and supreme reward.
For as the wind in the dark,
Coming down in a railway train
In summer, is blown in vain
Round that travelling swift-winged spark,
So is death but a toothless shark
To a soul whose life is pain.
Coming down in a railway train
In summer, is blown in vain
Round that travelling swift-winged spark,
So is death but a toothless shark
To a soul whose life is pain.
One long throb, and a flow
Of one long pitiless stream,
The groan of an endless dream,
And a pale perpetual show
Of sounds that flicker and glow,
Waver and sparkle and beam;
Of one long pitiless stream,
The groan of an endless dream,
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Of sounds that flicker and glow,
Waver and sparkle and beam;
But never rise to a lamp,
To the light of the face of a bride,
To a strong-pulsed silvery tide,
But are intermittent and damp—
For souls foam hard and champ
Their bits, when lost loves ride;
To the light of the face of a bride,
To a strong-pulsed silvery tide,
But are intermittent and damp—
For souls foam hard and champ
Their bits, when lost loves ride;
Ride, and are bitter, and near,
That never a man may escape
That following sweet-voiced shape,
But his soul may bend and may hear
For ever the tramp of a fear,
And for ever the rustle of crape;
That never a man may escape
That following sweet-voiced shape,
But his soul may bend and may hear
For ever the tramp of a fear,
And for ever the rustle of crape;
And for ever the shiver of hands,
And for ever the feet of the lost,
And the throbs that search and exhaust,
Girdled with steel-spun bands,
For her hair, in sweet wide strands,
Is over him waved and tossed;
And for ever the feet of the lost,
And the throbs that search and exhaust,
Girdled with steel-spun bands,
For her hair, in sweet wide strands,
Is over him waved and tossed;
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Over him, down to his feet,
A terror, and yet so good
That, just as an image of wood,
He hath halted upright to meet
That shower of soft rain sweet,
Hath paused, and considered, and stood—
A terror, and yet so good
That, just as an image of wood,
He hath halted upright to meet
That shower of soft rain sweet,
Hath paused, and considered, and stood—
And hath tenderly pursed his face
To enjoy, and drink, and receive;
For only a fool would leave
A goddess-inhabited place—
A distant and doubtful grace,
And an unknown boon to achieve.
To enjoy, and drink, and receive;
For only a fool would leave
A goddess-inhabited place—
A distant and doubtful grace,
And an unknown boon to achieve.
| Under the dawn | |